The cause at Gellideg was started when a number of members of Bethesda Chapel, amongst them John Roger, Thomas Watkins, Edward Hughes, Rees Price, Thomas Morris, and David Jones started holding Sunday Schools and prayer meetings in local houses.
It soon became apparent that they needed somewhere more practical, so they approached Robert T Crawshay who gave them the land free of charge, and also provided the building materials at low price. He also contributed £5 towards the cost of building a schoolroom.
The Trustees of Bethesda Chapel took responsibility for the schoolroom at Gellideg after its completion in May 1861. The function of the schoolroom was to cater for the religious education of the district. Once the building was erected it could now be used for other activities relating to religious involvement such as Sunday School, mid week Prayer meetings; thus the numbers of people attending the schoolroom increased.
As the congregation grew, the elders at Bethesda Chapel decided that the members that attended Bethesda could now hold their own Sunday services at Gellideg with the help of the officers of the mother church.
Rev R Gwesyn Jones, minister of Bethesda Chapel, ministered to the congregation at Gellideg until he emigrated to America in 1867. When Rev R Gwesyn Jones left, the congregation at Gellideg approached Rev James Evans, minister at Zion, Craig y Fargoed to be their minister. He accepted and was inducted in May 1867. He continued as minister until 1878 when he was forced to retire due to ill health. Since then Gellideg has had no permanent minister.
Following its closure as an Independent Chapel in 1995, Gellideg Chapel was used for a time by the Nation Changers Church, but as of 2012 is once again empty.
We continue our serialisation of the memories of Merthyr in the 1830’s by an un-named correspondent to the Merthyr Express, courtesy of Michael Donovan.
Mr William Davies was the forge and mill manager at Cyfarthfa, and Mr John Jones, the furnace manager at Ynysfach. Mr Wiltshire was the vet or farrier (for the Veterinary College had not so many members then), but others also occur to me in other spheres of labour.
John Pritchard was the weigher on the top of the yard (approaching Gellideg). He was the father of the Dr Pritchard many of your readers may recall, living in High Street, opposite Glebeland Street. There was also a weigher at Ynysfach yard some few years later whose name I wish to mention; it was John Morgan, and his contributions to the mathematical part of the Gentleman’s Magazine of that time is ample evidence of his knowledge.
Possibly some of the descendents of those mentioned yet exist, and may read this – some can be recalled. Mr Davies, the mill manager had two daughters, one became Mrs John James (draper). Mr James married a Miss Kirkhouse, Llwyncelyn, an elder sister (half sister really) of the Rev Howell Kirkhouse. I do not think they had a family; nor can I recall either of Mr Jones’ brothers – William, who went to North Wales; or Charles, who went to London – having any; perhaps he (Charles) made up for it by becoming the secretary of the Welsh Girls’ School at Ashford.
William Crawshay II by an unknown artist. Courtesy of Cyfarthfa Castle Museum & Art Gallery
At the present time, when ‘combines’ for trade purposes are rife, and ever and anon a paragraph appears respecting what Mr Robert Thompson Crawshay said he would have done of the workmen had fallen in with his views, perhaps it may be appropriately state what Mr Wm. Crawshay did do in order to meet the varying conditions of demand for produce.
No matter what the marketable produce may have to be – whether bars, rails, sheets or slit rods – all were made from puddled bars rolled to 3 and 3½ inches wide and one-half to five-eighths thick; these were all cut when hot to suit the length of the ‘pile’, as a rule these may be about 18 inches only. After being cut to the length they were taken to an open place – there was one in front of what was afterwards erected and called the Pandy Mill – where they were packed up in the form of a shed, with the roof on, say 16 feet or 18 feet long, 12 feet wide, and 10 feet to the commencement of the slope forming the roof. The weight of one of these ‘houses’ would be about 500 tons. In very bad times, many of these would be built; I think as many as twenty have been seen at one time at the spot indicated, besides others elsewhere, so that there was a stack of 20,000 tons ready for working off when the demand required.
The value of a ton of puddled bars varied from £3 up, so that if 20s were added to the value, there was a virtual profit of about 30 percent on the full amount. Tin-plate manufacturers work for stock occasionally, and the pig-iron manufacturers can deposit their produce and obtain an advance thereon, but rail makers, or bar-iron makers cannot do so to a great extent. In the one case, because of the section, on on the other, the difficulty of avoiding the oxidation. Is it any wonder that the Crawshays are wealthy?
“Cyfarthfa Ironworks at Night” (1825) by Penry Williams. Courtesy of Cyfarthfa Castle Museum and Art Gallery
The Merthyr Tydfil Historical Society is pleased to announce its lecture programme for the first half of 2022 – the Society’s 50th year!!!
Annual membership is £12, but you are welcome to come to any lecture – whether you are a member or not – guests pay £2 per lecture, the lectures a free to members. Everyone is welcome!!!!
On 1st April 1898, Sam Hughes died in a small terraced house at Three Mile Cross on the outskirts of Reading. His widow, in grief and poverty, petitioned the Royal Society of Musicians for a small grant to pay for his funeral. The Society, which had treated him kindly in the closing years of his life, responded benevolently once more, for it was known that his passing marked the end of a significant, if brief, era. Sam Hughes was the last great ophicleide player. He was perhaps the only really great British ophicleide player. Many great romantic composers including Mendelssohn, Wagner and Berlioz wrote for the instrument, which was invented by a man called Halary in Paris in 1821 – three years before Sam Hughes was born. For the next half century it was widely used but few played it well. George Bernard Shaw regularly referred to it as the “chromatic bullock” but even he, whose caustic indignation was often vented on London’s brass players, had been moved by a rendering of O Ruddier than the Cherry by Mr Hughes.
The fate of the ophicleide (right) and the story of Sam Hughes provide a neat illustration of the pace and character of musical change in Britain in the Victorian period. One product of this change was the brass band “movement” – a movement which, if the untested claims of most authors on the subject are to be believed, had its origins in Wales. Despite Shaw’s claims that the ophicleide had been “born obsolete”, it died because it was consumed by the irresistible forces of technological invention and commercial exploitation. In particular, it was overtaken by the euphonium.
The euphonium was invented in the 1830s. It became popular some time later, but from the start it was easier to play and simpler and cheaper to manufacture. The makers ensured that the euphonium usurped the ophicleide’s position as the bass-baritone instrument in brass bands by contriving one of the neatest tricks of the 19th century. At brass band contests it was common to single out the best individual player of the day (irrespective of what instrument he performed on) and award him an elaborate prize – a sort of “man of the match” award. From the mid-century the winners of these awards were, with uncanny frequency, ophicleide players. Their prize was always a brand new euphonium. By about 1870 just about every good ophicleide player had “won” a euphonium.
The exception was Sam Hughes, who by that time had left the world of brass bands and was swanning around London with his ophicleide. He became professor of ophicleide at the Royal Military School of Music at Kneller Hall and at the Guildhall School of Music. He was destined for stardom with Jullien’s orchestra and to beguile George Bernard Shaw with O Ruddier than the Cherry at Covent Garden. In the mid-1850s Hughes was playing for the Cyfarthfa Brass Band in Merthyr Tydfil. Robert Thompson Crawshay, who had set up the band in 1838, had procured his services and arranged for him to have a job as a railway agent in Merthyr. He had apparently left by 1860, the year that the Cyfarthfa band came first at the great national contest at Crystal Palace. Their solo ophicleide player on that day was a man called Walker – he won a euphonium. The best brass band players in Wales were better than most of the professional brass players. The technical and artistic demands of the band repertoire were vastly greater than those of the orchestral repertoire. The likes of Sam Hughes demonstrated a touch that, by all accounts, drew gasps of admiration. The reasons why the players became so good and the consequences of that competence are worth thinking about.
Brass instruments were cheap and relatively easy to play. These two vital factors were pressed home by publishers, instrument manufacturers and everyone else who was astute enough to notice that an entire new market for music was opening. Musical literacy is easier to obtain than word literacy; to an extent, and unlike words, music looks like it sounds. It is possible, even probable, that many of the best 19th century brass band players (people who could play an Italian opera overture at sight) were otherwise illiterate.
Men like Sam Hughes were exemplars for those who followed. Their playing was heard by thousands at open-air contests and concerts. The brilliance of their playing was immediately evident and left little to doubt. Everyone could measure it. Musical skill is notorious for its lack of ambiguity; it is impossible to bluff your way through an ophicleide solo. The other issue of importance concerns the repertoire. While hymns and arrangements of Welsh folk songs are found in the surviving collections of music, the main body of the repertoire is classical or “art” music. Italian opera dominated the repertoire but Mozart, Haydn, Handel, Beethoven and Bach were also popular. (The adoption of Haydn and Handel as Christian names for boys came from this period). More modern music was also played. The Cyfarthfa repertoire included works by Wagner and a precociously talented local boy called Joseph Parry. Bands were the means by which instrumental art music became widely disseminated. The mass of the people had unequivocal access to this form of “high art”. They didn’t have to be able to read, and because most performances were in the open air, they didn’t even need the price of admission to hear the very best “modern music”.
The hand-written music from which players such as Sam Hughes played still survives. It provides unquestionable testimony as to how well the instruments were being played. Those who heard this playing did not just hear technical competence. They also heard musical virtuosity. Amidst the smoke and grime of Merthyr in the mid-19th century there sounded, on occasions, the lyricism of men like Sam Hughes. It was not just declamatory fanfares and scintillating chromatic runs that they played but gently turned phrases breathed softly above blocks of deep, sonorous harmony. Most brass band players lived and died where they were born. Sam Hughes died in poverty and a long way from home. The ophicleide died with him. There is a bitter irony in this story. Had he stayed in Merthyr he would have become Welsh. He would have died in comfort and security among people who admired him as one of their champions. Had he accepted the inevitable progress of technology and learned to play the euphonium he might even have died a rich man in London. He did neither.
Today Sam Hughes’s ophicleide rests in a glass case in Cyfarthfa Castle Museum. It is known throughout the world as one of the best surviving examples of its type. In the quest for authenticity, musicians are now learning to play the ophicleide again and clapped-out specimens are being lovingly restored. Hughes’ instrument plays as beautifully today as if the master had put it down just an hour ago.
Sam Hughes’ ophicleide (left) at Cyfarthfa Museum
The above is a much shortened version of an article which appeared in edition No.87 of Planet, The Welsh Internationalist.
William Crawshay II. Photo courtesy of Cyfarthfa Museum and Art Gallery
William Crawshay II was the third generation of the Crawshay dynasty of Cyfarthfa Ironworks. Born on 27 March 1788, he was the second son of William Crawshay I, only son of Richard Crawshay, who took over ownership of the works from Anthony Bacon.
When Richard Crawshay died in 1810, owing to arguments between him and his son, William (senior), the latter only acquired a three-eighths share of the Cyfarthfa Ironworks, despite being the only son and heir. Over the next decade, William Crawshay senior set about acquiring the remaining shares in the Works to make himself undisputed master of Cyfarthfa. He, preferred however to live away from Merthyr, overseeing the Crawshays’ London base at the wharves in George’s Yard, Upper Thames Street, so he appointed his son William (II) to manage the operation at Cyfarthfa.
When William Crawshay II assumed business responsibilities, Welsh iron was in its heyday and Cyfarthfa prospered under his charge: in 1810 the four blast furnaces producing approximately 11,000 tons of pig iron annually.
These early years were marked by a perennial battle with his father over the extent of his authority at the works. The elder Crawshay was determined to keep Cyfarthfa subordinate to the family’s merchant house at George Yard. This his son could not endure; he was intent on selling Cyfarthfa iron as he saw fit, without reference to his father and brothers in London. Yet despite the repeated tendering (and hasty withdrawals) of his resignation young William was unable to overcome his father. ‘My Dear Will, don’t play the fool,’ his father told him after one threatened resignation in 1820, ‘You are now Vice-Roy of Cyfarthfa and will be Sovereign early enough if you will be content to allow his present Majesty some shadow of Royalty’.
By 1823 the Cyfarthfa Ironworks was the largest in Britain, producing 24,200 tons of pig iron from eight blast furnaces, and William, who was at this time living at Gwaelodygarth House, decided that it was time to erect a new home befitting his status as Merthyr’s ‘Iron King’. He employed architect and engineer Robert Lugar, the same engineer who built many bridges and viaducts for the local railways, to design a huge neo-gothic ‘mock’ castle, complete with towers and turrets, standing in 158 acres of landscaped parkland, overlooking the Ironworks. Cyfarthfa Castle was completed in 1824, at a cost of £30,000.
William Crawshay I died in 1834, and William II became sole proprietor of the Cyfarthfa Works, and also inheriting a share in the London property. By the time Crawshay entered into his inheritance, however, the pre-eminence of Cyfarthfa was slipping. He could not prevent his works being overhauled by neighbouring Dowlais, where the Guests were more sensitively attuned to the crucial market for rails in the 1830s and 1840s. Indeed, the aloofness of the Crawshay dynasty was fast becoming an impediment to continued success: little notice was taken, for example, of the new steelmaking technology of the 1850s. In William Crawshay’s last years it was clear that the great days had passed.
As a young man Crawshay inclined to radicalism in politics. He was also a firm supporter of anti-truck legislation, sensing an opportunity to embarrass the Guests, who operated a truck system (the system of paying wages in goods instead of money) at Dowlais. During the Reform crisis he actively promoted the cause of parliamentary reform – while simultaneously introducing a programme of sudden wage cuts at depression-hit Cyfarthfa. This was a volatile course of action, and one to which contemporaries attributed the insurrectionary riots which swept Merthyr in June 1831, obliging Crawshay to write a hasty defence of his role in local affairs, “The Late Riots at Merthyr Tydfil”(1831).
During the later 1830s he swung abruptly into the Tory camp, although this was a plainly opportunistic manoeuvre to unseat Sir Josiah John Guest, who had been returned for the newly enfranchised borough of Merthyr in 1832 on a radical ticket.
William was married three times, each time to a bride with connections in the iron trade. He married first, in 1808, Elizabeth, the daughter of Francis Homfray (1725–1798) of Stourbridge, a member of the midland iron-making dynasty, and later proprietor of the Penydarren Ironworks. They had three sons, and Elizabeth died in 1813 giving birth to a daughter. Crawshay married second, in 1815, Isabel, the daughter of James Thompson of Grayrigg, Westmorland. Her uncle William Thompson (1793–1854), MP, lord mayor of London in 1828, was a partner in the Penydarren Ironworks, and her uncle Robert Thompson was the proprietor of the Tintern Abbey Ironworks in Monmouthshire. Isabel died in 1827, having given birth to two sons and seven daughters. Crawshay married third, in 1828, Isabella (d. 1885), the sister of Thomas Johnson, a partner in the Bute Ironworks in the Rhymney Valley, and they had a daughter.
William began spending an increasing amount of time at his estate at Caversham in Oxfordshire, which he bought in 1848, having previously leased it for many years, and it was at Caversham that he died on 4 August 1867. In his will, the Cyfarthfa Ironworks were passed on to his elder son from his second marriage – Robert Thompson Crawshay.
We continue our serialisation of the memories of Merthyr in the 1830’s by an un-named correspondent to the Merthyr Express, courtesy of Michael Donovan.
A map by John Wood of Georgetown in 1836 showing the area (George Street) covered in this article.
In a cottage in the row, say 6 or 8 doors up, there was an old blind man, Thomas Evans, who had been a hammerman at Cyfarthfa. He was of the scientific society at the ‘Dynevor’, and was pleased if anyone would sit and read to him (this said advisedly and from experience).
Two dwellings followed owned by Mr David Williams (known as Williams of Pontyrhun). He was a widower, and had a family of two sons and two daughters. One of the later kept a school, but became Mrs John Jones (druggist etc.) of Aberdare. One of the sons, John, was the editor of the Silurian paper, which started at Brecon in the Whig interest, to whom the late Mr Peter Williams, of the Merthyr Telegraph, was apprenticed. The other son emigrated to Australia.
At the top, not many doors from the gate house, Mr Thomas Shepherd, then the cashier at Cyfarthfa Works lived. He removed to Navigation House after the death of Mr George Forrest, and then became superintendent of the Glamorganshire Canal.
Restarting from the bridge and crossing the tramroad, some short distance up on the left, a Mr Walter Morgan resided. He had been brought up as a solicitor, but was then in the brewery business. The brewery was situated behind the house, and had entrance from a road at the back.
An extract from the 1851 Public Health Map showing a more detailed view of the area in question. Mr Morgan’s Brewery (by 1851 called the Ship Brewery) is marked.
Mr Morgan had two daughters and one son. The eldest married, but her painfully sudden death seemed to show that she was not happy. The youngest became Mrs Macnamara, wife of a barrister, who became judge of one of the East Indian courts. Her brother, who also was a barrister, became the same, but whether both were in Calcutta or elsewhere cannot be recalled.
The ascent was steep shortly after passing Mr Morgan’s residence. A Captain Oakey lived in residence on the left and overlooked the flat portion of Georgetown etc. He had been at sea for many years and then lived retired.
Upon Mr Crawshay – the grandfather of the present generation – buying a lot of old stores from Woolwich, they were sent to Cyfarthfa to be manufactured into bar iron, and there were some pieces of ordnance as well as round balls amongst the lot. Mr Robert Thompson Crawshay had one at least of the cannons taken to the tip above Nantygwenith and fired them (for I think there was more than one). The good old captain, who was enjoying his siesta upon the first firing and stretched upon his sofa, from association of his past life rolled himself off the sofa and on to the floor. So strange is habit.
Hill House – the home of Captain Oakey. Hill House was later the home of several generations of the Williams Family for many years. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
Above Captain Oakey’s was the house occupied by Mr Jeffries, the blast furnace manager at Cyfarthfa. There were then no other houses except an isolated cottage or two until Penyrheolgerrig was come to.
The fate of the ophicleide (right) and the story of Sam Hughes provide a neat illustration of the pace and character of musical change in Britain in the Victorian period. One product of this change was the brass band “movement” – a movement which, if the untested claims of most authors on the subject are to be believed, had its origins in Wales. Despite Shaw’s claims that the ophicleide had been “born obsolete”, it died because it was consumed by the irresistible forces of technological invention and commercial exploitation. In particular, it was overtaken by the euphonium.
